


the way the light reflects

by inlovewithnight



Series: Pretty [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Collars, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3438164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the second game of the series to the All-Star draft. At no point are the two of them in the same place at the same time. Malkin has a plan for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way the light reflects

They beat the Penguins in the second game, which is awesome. Aaron feels awesome. It’s a good game, and at home, so after he can do whatever he wants. He can take his adrenaline buzz and go out, party, have _fun_.

Except he can’t legally drink in this godforsaken country, and his agent gets on his ass about it when he lets the other guys take care of him like _everybody else_ does. _You have a clean-cut image, Aaron. We want to keep that intact. It’s important. Don’t risk it._

Passing him around the captains is still cool, though. Because it’s teaching him something. He doesn’t really get it.

He has to admit he’s used to fucking around after games, though. He can’t seem to calm down. He drives around a little, aimless loops, and finally heads back to Willie’s house. The lights are on in the master suite; right, right, Willie’s the one with a rookie on his knees tonight. The thought makes Aaron’s stomach flip-flop and he swallows it down, taking the keys out of the ignition and sitting still for a moment. He can let himself in and go to bed, or watch TV, or whatever. He’s got free access to everything, he can come and go. He’s _mature for his age_ , after all. Like his agent and the press and Coach and Willie all say.

He doesn’t feel mature right now. He feels restless and… angry. That doesn’t make any sense. They fucking _won_ , why is he angry?

He walks down the driveway to the sidewalk, away from the house, and looks at his phone. There’s a missed text from a number he doesn’t know.

_Good game pretty. Sorry not to see you._

Aaron stares at it for a moment. Pretty.

Malkin?

He texts back. _Thanks. Saw me on the ice right?_

_Ha ha. Yes._

Aaron tries to think of something else to say, something marginally smart or clever. Nothing comes to mind, just his heart thudding dully and his brain whirling through a fading adrenaline rush. Malkin texts again before he can manage anything.

_Not see you again for a while._

Aaron can’t remember the whole schedule, but he knows that’s right. _I guess not._

_Send pictures if you want )))_

That… he hadn’t expected that. _Really?_

_I’ll send you too._

The picture comes a moment later: Malkin still in his dress shirt, collar undone, tie loose. He’s grinning around a mouthful of cake.

_You lost, how come you get cake?_

_Ha ha ha_

Aaron rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. His brain is quieting down, a little bit. He takes a quick picture of himself, mussed hair glaring under the streetlight.

_Nice_ , Malkin answers. _Talk soon pretty._

Aaron walks for an hour, tracing a big circle that takes him back to Willie’s house. The lights are off now, and it’s quiet, so he won’t run into the Pens’ rookie. He can just go to bed.

He looks at the picture of Malkin half a dozen times before he manages to fall asleep.

**

Malkin texts him pictures once a week or so. They’re not sexy shots or naked pictures or anything; they’re random selfies or things he encounters, usually accompanied by a smile and telling Aaron to have a good day.

Well. Telling _pretty_ to have a good day. Aaron’s kind of getting used to that.

He always sends a picture in response; his face, his skates, the burger he’s about to attack. Sometimes it turns into a conversation. Malkin always finishes it off by promising to talk soon.

Aaron doesn’t see how that’s going to happen. They’re not playing each other again til February, and it’s not even the All-Star break yet.

It sucks that Malkin is going to the All-Star weekend and Aaron isn’t, even though everybody laughs at him for saying a weekend in Miami sucks compared to a weekend in Columbus. Columbus has _hockey_ and press and stuff he hasn’t gotten to do yet.

And Malkin. Not that he really cares about seeing Malkin. Just, maybe this whole text thing has some sort of endgame, and he could ask Malkin about it in Columbus. If he was going. Which he isn’t. So he shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

He gets word that Erik Johnson is out and he’s in about half an hour before he hears that Malkin is out. At least that half-hour is busy, so he doesn’t have a chance to text Malkin all excited and look like an idiot.

_Sorry I won’t see you at the game_ , he says instead.

The reply is fast. _Yeah is too bad. You’ll have fun. Good for rookies._

Aaron rolls his eyes. _Lower-body injury, huh?_

_Ha ha yeah groin. Hurts like fuck. I send you a present, ok?_

_A present from your groin?_ Aaron is pretty sure that’s hilarious, but Geno’s answer is brief and serious.

_Will be at hotel when you get there. Talk soon pretty bye._

Aaron frowns at the screen for a minute, then puts his phone away and goes to throw some clean underwear in a bag. He’s going to Ohio.

**

The woman working at the front desk at the hotel hands over a padded envelope without comment, and Aaron takes it upstairs with his bag and the folder full of reminders of where he’s supposed to be when, which he is not even going to read because if he’s not where he’s supposed to be someone will come find him.

He tosses his bag and the keycard aside and sits down on the bed to tear open the envelope. There’s a note inside, a quick scrawl on the back of a restaurant flier: _For you, pretty. Send picture. Call me after draft!_

Aaron sets that aside and pulls out the other thing in the envelope, a bundle of tissue paper that comes apart to reveal a narrow, dark leather strap with a buckle at one end. He blinks at it a few times, holds it up to the light, runs it through his fingers.

It is definitely a collar, and he is definitely in a hotel room in Ohio with no dogs in sight. He doesn’t even have a dog in Florida. Willie does, but that’s not _his_ dog, and his parents’ dogs are back in Canada, so what the…

Oh.

He flops backward onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling for a while. Shit. Holy shit.

It’s not a subtle message; the problem is that he doesn’t know what it actually _means_. Malkin is clearly trying to say something loud and clear, but he is very possibly saying it in Russian, because Aaron doesn’t… quite… get it.

But he’s supposed to send a picture, and he’s supposed to _call_ Malkin later, and _fuck_ , this would be a great time to have Willie around so he could actually ask for some goddamn mentoring. Not that he’s told Willie anything about Malkin or… or anything. He hasn’t talked to Willie at all about going to the other captains after the first time, when he came back and said “So it’s just… like that?” and Willie said “Yeah, learn everything you can, kid,” and clapped him on the shoulder, and then Megan made Aaron a sandwich and they watched DVR’d episodes of The Voice until Aaron went to bed.

He dreamed about Blake Shelton skating with him in some kind of world championship. Blake Shelton isn’t even Canadian.

He looks at the collar again, running his fingers over the leather. It’s really nice leather. It’s a really nice collar. The fittings are silver and it’s just… pretty. He bites his lip at the thought and lets the buckle fall down to hit him in the face.

Pretty. Right.

Someone taps on the door and calls out that there are fifteen minutes until he needs to be in the lobby to go to the next thing. He needs to change his shirt and fix his hair before then, but taking a picture for Malkin is more urgent. If he doesn’t, he might never find out where all of this is going.

At the same time, he can’t bring himself to put it around his neck. He just… he doesn’t _know_. He needs Malkin to explain what this means before he can do that.

Instead he wraps it around his wrist a few times, and twists the leather to jam the buckle since there’s no hole to buckle it properly. He takes a picture of it like that, dark and tight against his skin, and hits send.

The reply comes while he’s fixing his hair. _Nice. Have it on when you call me._

Aaron feels relief and disappointment at once, that Malkin doesn’t want him to wear it through the draft. He definitely couldn’t keep it hidden the whole time, and it’s televised; it would be stupid to keep it on. Neither of them is stupid.

But it kind of would’ve been nice to be asked.

**

The draft is really long and really confusing and there is _so much_ alcohol and his agent is not there to be a buzzkill. Besides, if anyone even tried not to drink Ovechkin would’ve made them do shots with him, so whatever.

He gets back to the room and throws himself down on the bed again, rubbing his face against the covers. He is quite drunk. He is playing for Team Toews this weekend, for Jonny Toews who they won’t even play til February so there’s nothing weird there. Anyway the other rookies all say that Toews mostly wants handjobs while watching game film.

He pulls the collar out from where he hid it under the pillow and winds it around his wrist again. He doesn’t know what this call is going to be like; he can _guess_ , but his guesses have been wrong before. He trusts Malkin, he’s pretty sure. No real reason not to.

He’s too drunk for introspection. Time to call.

Malkin picks up on the second ring. “Privyet.”

“Hey.” Aaron swallows and turns over onto his back. “Still want to talk?”

“Yes. You have fun tonight?”

“Yeah.” He tries to stop himself from giggling, but he can’t help it. “Did you watch?”

“Saw some of it. Sasha being funny about the car.”

“Yes!” Aaron laughs again. “Too bad he didn’t get it, huh?”

“He will find a way. Sasha very persistent.” Malkin is quiet for a minute, breathing into the phone, and Aaron closes his eyes, matching his breathing to that rhythm and picturing Malkin as if he was there, in the room. That would be better. He hasn’t had a whole lot of chances to get used to being alone in his life. He’s pretty bad at it.

“You still dressed?” Malkin asks abruptly. “Shouldn’t be.”

“You want me naked?” Aaron puts the phone on speaker and drops it to the bed. He can strip down fast, clothes are nothing at all after getting used to wiggling out of pads. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Send another picture.”

“Of the… the collar? Or of me?”

Malkin sighs. “Surprise me, Aaron.”

That’s the first time he’s called Aaron by name. Aaron kind of wants to freak out about it, but he’s too drunk and content. “Okay.” He sends a picture of the collar around his wrist, then puts his arm down next to his dick and sends a picture of both together. 

Malkin makes a pleased noise. “You know what I’m thinking.”

“Are you gonna tell me what to do?”

“I hope you know what to do.”

“Oh, come on.” Aaron rubs himself slowly, stretching out across the bed. “I mean do you want me to pretend you’re here, or pretend I’m doing Crosby, or do something weird to myself, or--”

“Why would I want you to pretend to do Sid?”

“Well. You know.” Aaron stutters to a halt, his hand going still. “He’s Sid Crosby.”

Malkin is quiet for a moment. “I want to hear you. Do it like you would do it at home, yeah? After you win a game.”

“Okay.” Aaron closes his eyes and wraps his hand around himself, pressing his thumb against his balls for a beat before he starts to stroke. “Um, if I’m at home, I don’t talk during it.”

“That’s okay. Hold the phone so I hear you breathe.”

It’s a weird kind of hot, thinking about Malkin listening to him breathe while he’s jerking off. It makes _him_ really aware of his breath, of how it speeds up and slows down, every time it catches in his throat, when the rhythm of it is interrupted by involuntary little moans and gasps he’d never realized he made. He’s aware of his heart, too, thudding in his chest, blood racing through his veins, the pulse in his dick under his hand.

It’s more intense than imagining Malkin watching him; almost as intense as Malkin _actually_ watching him, on that night in Pittsburgh. He had no idea performing for someone who wasn’t there could be like this.

Malkin doesn’t speak again until Aaron groans and comes, panting his way through it. “Clean it up now,” he hears from the phone, Malkin’s voice low and rumbling. “Like you did here.”

That makes him groan again, and he brings his hand up to his mouth, licking it clean slowly, making sure to get every finger. He listens to Malkin’s breath, now, and hears it quicken. Maybe Malkin’s hard, too. Maybe Aaron got to him a little.

“Get good rest, pretty,” Malkin says after a moment .”Bring the collar with you next time you come here.”

Aaron rubs the leather, tracing his fingers over the neat stitching holding the buckle in place. “Who says you’re going to see me? You might not win.”

“Come see you either way,” Malkin says quietly. “Talk soon, pretty. Goodnight.”

He hangs up and Aaron lies there for a while, touching the collar around his wrist and imagining a line leading from it to Pittsburgh, and not going away.


End file.
